The Lotus Empire (The Burning Kingdoms #3)

Chapter 34 Aravind

ARAVIND

“It’s a thankless job,” Aravind’s commander told him before their force set out to the border between Srugna and Ahiranya, where the trees loomed and old monsters now walked. “But you have to do it, boy. It’ll be good for you.” A pat on the back, oddly gentle.

The commander was often kind to him because he was the youngest warrior in this patrol. Too many men had died in the war for the imperial throne, or from the rot, which meant even boys had to fight. But Aravind was glad to be in the army. He wasn’t as much of a child as everyone seemed to think he was.

Aravind hadn’t argued, because it didn’t seem like anyone cared if he wanted to go to the border or not. That wasn’t what it meant to be a Srugani warrior. He hadn’t built his strength hefting river stones and, later, heavy carved maces so that he could stay home and be comfortable. His job was to be a loyal body, and that was what he was going to be.

He was fifteen. Old enough for war.

Patrolling the border with Ahiranya was still not a job he wanted to do for long. The forest was old and dark and soundless and rotten. Sometimes, at night, some of the other men swore it sang, trying to call them in. His mother had warned him about the forest when he was a boy, fed him warnings in the sweet milk of a bedtime story. The last time the yaksa had walked the subcontinent, they had come to Srugna with feasts and promises. Sometimes they’d tempt people with gifts. Fruit that split open into flowers, or gold and jewels that could only be won by combat or marriage. Sometime people took what was offered.

People who went with them never came back.

Now Aravind shuddered. His armor wasn’t heavy, and part of him wished it had a bit more weight and cloth to it. The trees here blotted out the sunlight, leaving the air uncomfortably cool. All he could hear was the creak of leather, the muttering of his fellow soldiers, sharing more of those stories that settled like stones in Aravind’s guts. Even the birds didn’t sing this close to Ahiranya. There was nothing to distract him.

Because he wasn’t sharing stories—because he was looking at the birdless trees—he was the first one to spot the woman who stumbled out of Ahiranya’s forest. She was in a light-colored salwar kameez, stained up to the calves in forest dirt. She was rot-riven, which wasn’t a surprise. He knew that local villages hounded out their sick, sending them into exile.

He was reluctant to approach her. Like most folk, he feared catching the rot. “You,” he called out. “Move along.”

She took a stumbling step forward. Aravind clutched his mace tighter, then let his grip loosen. She was just one girl.

She went to her knees. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought—nor was she old. She was just short, narrow-boned, her face visibly tense, even in the dim light. “I need your help,” she called back. Her voice was low, almost rasping. “Will you help me, brothers?”

“What kind of help?” Aravind’s commander asked. He was frowning. He reached for his belt. “I have a water flask here, little sister. You can drink.”

She whispered her thanks, looking between them. She held out a hand—and the commander grasped her hard by the wrist, wrenching her forward.

“You’re not Srugani,” he said flatly. “What are you doing here? How did you get out?”

The woman’s expression flickered. Gone was the soft look on it. Her mouth firmed.

“Well,” she said flatly. “I’ve never been good at this sort of thing.”

The world exploded around him.

Trees, soil, green—all twisted, all strange.

The solid world around them was like water in her hands. Every time she moved, it moved with her—branches splintering and dirt roiling—and he could only think, wildly, So this is what a yaksa is.

He grappled for his mace. It fell from his hands.

A hand wrenched him around by the back.

“I have one,” someone said. A man’s voice.

Aravind threw a wild punch. But for all his training—and he’d truly done his best—the man who had him was even stronger. Aravind found himself slammed down to the ground. A hand grasped his throat.

Distantly, he heard screaming. The sound of bones breaking.

Above him was a masked face—carved, cruel whorls of wood, and black eyes behind it.

The masked face spoke.

“You’re just a boy, aren’t you?” The masked man’s breath was hot. The skin of his throat gleamed with sweat. He looked vicious and animal, and Aravind wanted to shut his eyes from terror, wanted to die without seeing that mask over him. But when he turned his face away, the Ahiranyi man slapped a hand against his cheek, hard enough to hurt. “Look at me,” the man snapped. “Tell me who else waits us out on your lands. Is the empress’s army there with fire?”

“Yes,” Aravind gasped out. He grasped the lie. “Yes, there are more soldiers coming and they have fire. They’ll destroy you.”

A shadow fell over him. The woman from before crouched down. There were small flowers tracing her throat.

“He’s lying,” the woman said. “If the empress had sent forces they’d be here.” Her eyes were flat, grim. He didn’t know how he’d ever thought she looked fragile or small. Crouched, she was all coiled muscle.

He looked beyond her. All he could see of his patrol were still bodies.

All dead.

“Ganam,” another voice called. “Elder Priya. I’ve caught the commander. He’s still alive.”

“Bring him here,” the woman ordered.

Aravind watched his commander being dragged over. The man’s lip was split. A bloody wound was dripping from his side.

He was forced down onto the ground next to Aravind. The masked man stood tall and said to Aravind in a deadly voice, “Get onto your knees. Wait there.”

Without his mace and with his friends dead—what else could he do but obey? Better to die kneeling, he supposed, than flat in the dirt.

The masked man asked the commander the same question he’d asked Aravind. Aravind’s commander narrowed his eyes. Spat on the dirt. “The empress will destroy you. I can promise you that.”

“They don’t know anything,” the masked man said, turning to the woman again.

Silence from the woman. The rustle of footsteps as figures surrounded them.

“How old are you, you?” the masked man asked. It took a moment for Aravind to realize he was being questioned.

“F-fifteen,” he said.

The masked man said nothing.

“I’ll do it,” the small woman said.

“You shouldn’t,” the man said. “And neither should I.” His hand on his scythe was trembling. “Fuck the yaksa,” he said. “I won’t kill children for them.”

“Let him go, then,” the woman said. Her voice was soft. “Spirits, Ganam. I’m not asking you to do it.”

“He’ll tell someone we’re here,” the man said. “They’ll send more warriors.”

“You think I can’t fight them?”

“I think if they have their magic fire, none of us can. Your empress will come running when she knows you’re here.”

The woman closed her eyes.

“If anyone must die,” Aravind’s commander said heavily, “let it be me. Let the boy go.”

“Stand, boy,” the woman said to Aravind. He rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked down into her eyes. The look she gave him could have cut his soul. “Run,” she said.

“Listen to them, son,” his commander said softly.

Aravind hated himself for his own cowardice. He turned and fled.

Aravind ran. He didn’t look back. He heard a noise—a sharp, terrible noise. The snick of metal. The spill of blood. He ran. And ran, and ran, and ran.